The Magister
“Hunger I could take, we were used to hard times, back in Brookesfield. When river had failed to flood and the crops would wither, we would go for months with barely anything to eat. My father was very skilled indeed, how he managed to raise a family, in such dire conditions. Nothing short of miraculous. Torture? Borgis was more creative in his punishments, back when I was a lad. I got stuck with the wrong folk, paid the price. Now Borgis rots in a cell somewhere for his crimes. But my horse? Damn them. Damn them all.” Gualterio thought, as he chaffed at the bindings at his wrist and ankles, suffering the indignity of being bound and left face down in a cold cell. “Next time I’m letting Franco disable the alarms first." He was the one that suggested he go in first. "Stupid", he regrets, "what have they done to my horse?" Suddenly the cell door opens with a creak, and raw, unfiltered light floods in, blinding him temporarily. “Bring the prisoner upstairs!” a voice commands. “The Magister would want to educate this one… personally”. Rough hands manhandle Gualterio into standing up, they then tie a blindfold over his eyes and drag him out of the cell. “Ah is it bath time again master?” taunted Gualterio, “Lot of talk from a dead-man!” the man to his right snaps back, “We’ll be hearing none of your nonsense soon enough ha ha!” his counterpart chimes in, before delivering a swift blow to the gut. Gualterio doubles down, “you shouldn’t have done that friend…” “Or what? More empty threats?” “That’s enough! The magister would want him unspoiled for his work!” the commander chastising his men. Several terse minutes pass. Gualterio counting in his head, memorizing every turn, lift and drag his captors did. “If only I had my dagger…” he thinks to himself. He hears the slow creaking of a wooden staircase, before feeling the rush of cold wind, and the smell of guano. “The ravenloft” he forces down a wry smile. He was then plopped down on a chair, before his blindfold was removed. The night sky, lit by a full moon greets him. Then a voice addresses him: “Ah the first born of the Clan Malatesta! Welcome, welcome. I trust you have enjoyed your opulent accommodations?” the man addresses him. He stands a full head taller than any of his henchmen, lithe and thin, a wisp of a beard on his chin, yellowed teeth and a crooked nose. By all accounts he was not much to look at, but someone in Kaergoth wanted him dead, so off the Tunnel Rats went. But a fiasco with a trap and several tumbles later he was caught. Tortured for a week he gave them nothing. Here it seems, they have grown impatient. “I will make sure to recommend your tower to all my friends, Magister. If you would give me leave to speak to them?” “How stupid do you think we are, thief. Another round in the pain glove would see your wit watered down. It is only a matter of time, before my men have gathered the rest of your warband. The time of Ascension is nigh, and you Sire Malatesta, shall be at its forefront! Observe!” he waves a forearm and several armored men gather around a stone dais. A sphere at its center, glows brightly before rising up in midair. “Fel magic, for something that was supposedly band a century ago, we sure do meet a lot of casters” Gualterio mumbles to himself. “Master, the sacrifices are ready” says a hooded sycophant. “Good. Oberon will feast tonight” replied the Magister. Lighting envelopes the sphere, striking at the armored soldiers, arcs whip across them, bounding from their shields while white robed supplicants are forced at spear point to huddle beneath the floating object. The Magister starts an incantation, ''Nosfero. Ex. Mortes. ''with each word his voice rises, booming even. Rising and undiluted even by the wind. The spellbook in front of him whips open, the pages flipping open quickly. Gualterio chafes at his bindings once more “Is this it? Is this how I go?” he starts to despair, he looks around to see if there is anything he can use to free himself. No good. The bindings are too tight. He tries to find something, anything, before this eyes land on something familiar. It looks back at him, it cocked its head. And squawks. Bright lights stab through the darkness, the moon becomes obscured suddenly, then a voice cuts through the spell “FEAR NOT. FOR YOUR SAVIORS HAVE ARRIVED!” The armored soldiers raise their shields as arrows start raining from the sky. One was hit in the eye while another was impaled in the foot. All around Gulaterio, men started dying. An arrow strikes between his ankles, and a dagger landed between his legs, burying itself in his chair. “Hey! Careful!” He quickly cuts off his bindings and grabs the dagger. One of his captors, too dumbstruck to react stares at him slackjawed in amazement “I told you, you shouldn’t have done that!” Gualterio says before stabbing him in the gut. The body slumps to the ground, the Magister wheels around and shouts “No…No…NO! The ritual must be completed! Slit their throats! Oberon must be sated!” A grappling hook falls towards the tower and a voice shouts “Grab on!”. A soldier blocks Gualterio’s path, he strikes with the edge of his shied but the rogue ducked and slid under his legs, kicking him. The soldier falls and without losing momentum Gualterio leaps and grabs the grappling hook before it falls off the edge. Hooking his foot on the claws and twisting the rope on his arm, he grabs on for dear life. He uses the swinging motion to turn back to the tower and shout “Now then Magister, let this be the day you remember as the day you ALMOST caught Gualterio Mala…” before hitting a chimney. - Edge of Worlds: Year Unknown